


Drift and Call It Dreaming

by savage_starlight



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Idiots in love who won't admit they're in love, Implied Relationships, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Other, Pre-Apocalypse, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-13 02:00:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savage_starlight/pseuds/savage_starlight
Summary: “Was that a yawn? Are you tired?”“It’s going on four in the bloody morning. Of course I’m tired.”(A missing scene from the night an angel and a demon decide to raise the Antichrist.)





	Drift and Call It Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> First Good Omens fic of many more that will probably come!!! Also the first fic I've handwritten in ages, so there's an accomplishment all its own. In any event, I love these two morons and had to write something and will be continuing to write more about them because I have too many songs that remind me of them and too many emotions to handle, so here we are. 
> 
> As a note, given the whole "angels are sexless" thing and the fact that I personally headcanon these two as being a very much asexual couple as a result (potential human tattoo and flower shop AUs notwithstanding), this is likely the only non-AU Good Omens fic which I will be labelling as M/M. Thought I'd give a heads up if anyone intends to seek out more fic by me in this fandom with these two as a pairing.
> 
> The title comes from "Call it Dreaming", by Iron and Wine. It's an amazing song, if you haven't heard it, and there's quite a few lines that fit the husbands. Also, for anyone who might be wondering why Gabriel's porn thing is brought up when it hasn't happened yet in canon at this point, it's because I genuinely think that Gabriel is just the right breed of stupid to pull the exact same guise //every fucking time// when he sees Aziraphale. Poor angel's been traumatised by it.
> 
> Hope you enjoy the fic!

The night they decide they’re going to raise the Antichrist together, they talk for hours. There’s the conversations before the decision is reached, obviously – something about bananas and fish stew, though the details are too hazy for Aziraphale to remember entirely even after they’ve sobered up – but there’s the discussions afterward too. There’s a considerable amount of logisitics involved in collaborating with one’s archnemesis to prevent the apocalypse, and by 3.17 in the morning, it’s all starting to turn a bit fuzzy. Aziraphale’s head hurts, the low drumming in his temples a sure sign that it is time for him to take a break and read for a moment. _Heidi,_ perhaps. It’s a simple tale and a quick one, but he’s always found it charming.

Across the room, Crowley’s made himself comfortable. He has a knack for that, Aziraphale thinks, a way of making every space his own. It reminds the angel of chameleons he’d seen once on a mission in Brazil, even if he’s reasonably certain that Crowley is categorically incapable of blending in with the scenery. He’s got a degree of panache to him that makes such a thing impossible, a magnetic field of sorts that draws people in, or at least draws in soft angels who should know better than to be so foolishly, recklessly in-

He realises a moment too late that Crowley’s asked him something, that he’s been waiting for an answer while Aziraphale’s been staring like an adoring puppy. His cheeks burn as he pulls his eyes away to settle on a world atlas from the 1940s which sits somewhere behind Crowley’s head and silently thanks the Almighty for the fact that he keeps his bookshop so dimly lit. Then he clears his throat and smiles, blinking. “Sorry, what?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow. “I said, don’t you think it’s about time to call it a night on this Antichrist business? Well. More calling it a morning at this point – why exactly don’t you have any clocks in this entire bookshop?”

“I have one,” Aziraphale protests. “It’s at the front of the store. I don’t need any others, that’s the function of a watch. And in any event, I don’t have to give punctuality a terrible amount of thought usually. I rarely have meetings with anyone other than you, unless someone’s made an appointment.”

“Explains your shop hours. I figured you’d just made them like that to keep anyone from actually being able to come in and buy anything.” Crowley says it with a wry grin, but Aziraphale’s cheeks flush in embarrassment at being discovered and the demon’s eyes widen, his mouth falling open with astonishment. “No.”

Aziraphale fumbles for an excuse. “I never know when head office is going to drop in without notice and require my attention. It’s not as if I can simply pop into the back room and leave the front desk unattended. If anybody requires assistance-”

“You made your hours like that on purpose?”

“Would you want to be around a group of humans when Gabriel drops in?”

“I don’t enjoy being on the same planet when Gabriel drops in.”

“The last time he was here, his idea of subtlety was dreadful. He tried to get me alone by asking me for- for _pornography,_ ” Aziraphale says helplessly, feeling his nose scrunch up in distaste. Then Crowley’s spine goes liquid and he’s half-collapsed into the couch with how hard he’s laughing, and try as he might, Aziraphale can’t make himself feel mortified about that.

He presses his lips together and looks away, riding out the symphony of Crowley’s laughter. He realises belatedly that he perhaps shouldn’t have provided the demon with more ammunition to commit sacrilege, but – well. Loath as he is to admit it, Crowley’s always had a point about how little attention their respective head offices tend to pay them as a general rule, and looking at him now, Aziraphale can’t feel too guilty.

It’s nearly three minutes before he completely finishes dying of laughter and straightens himself out again. Crowley dashes tears from the corners of his eyes and sighs, loud and heavy. “Oh, angel,” he says, and shakes his head.

“I’m glad you find this all so terribly amusing,” Aziraphale mutters, only a little crossly. “The entire interaction was completely horrifying.”

“Is there any interaction with Gabriel that isn’t?”

“ _Crowley._ ” Aziraphale casts his eyes heavenward and offers a brief apology on the demon’s behalf and redirects the conversation. “Weren’t you saying something important earlier, before all this distraction?”

Crowley waves a hand dismissively. “Nah, probably not. I don’t say important things. I rarely say important things. One of my rules.” His grin is sly and curves across his face with an enticing charm that isn’t entirely fair, and Aziraphale is just about to remark on it when he sees the demon shift slightly and cover his mouth with a hand.

Aziraphale frowns. “Was that a yawn? Are you tired?”

“It’s going on four in the bloody morning. Of course I’m tired.” Crowley tosses one obscenely long leg over the arm of the couch and sprawls across the length of it.

Aziraphale purses his lips and looks away. “I was under the impression that evil never sleeps,” he says, taking great care to keep his tone even.

“Yeah, that was before evil had to gallivant around the whole blessed Earth all through the 14th century,” Crowley retorts, unperturbed. “Anyone would fancy a nap after that.”

“Yes, but. Well. Put simply – Crowley, that was centuries ago. Surely you’re not still tired?”

Crowley shrugs. “Nah. Have gotten used to the sleeping bit, though. ‘S a nice way to pass the time.”

“Virtue is ever vigilant,” Aziraphale parrots without thinking, wincing when Crowley gives him the Look he saves for when he’s said something particularly reminiscent of a boy scout pamphlet. “Well, it is. And besides, why would I sleep? There’s all these books to be read and people can be so peculiar when it’s dark.” He steeples his fingers and leans forward eagerly. “Once, when I was walking around in the middle of winter, I was approached by a gentleman dressed in black who offered to show me something unique – ‘life-changing’ was the phrase he used, I believe. He was quite insistent, but you see, I’d just acquired a first edition Wilde that I’d been reading at a café, so I was in a bit of a rush, but it was still a delightful experience. He was such a lovely young man.”

“It sounds like he was a drug dealer and you’re lucky you didn’t get mugged,” Crowley says, rubbing a hand over his face.

“No,” Aziraphale breathes, shocked. “You don’t really think-?  Oh, dear.” He frowns, shaking his head. “He just seemed so kind.”

“You think everybody seems kind,” Crowley mutters. “Think I’m kind. I have no idea where you get it from.” He shakes his head, and for the fifth time in as many minutes yawns again.

Aziraphale suppresses a frown, eyebrows furrowing slightly as he pointedly refrains from mentioning 1941 and the intact first editions of the prophecy books he keeps in a place of honour near his desk. It’s too late to get into an argument, and even if it wasn’t, well. Any surveillance heaven might be providing doesn’t really need to hear him having a heart to heart with a demon he’s spent the last six thousand years allegedly thwarting. Instead, he clears his throat and glances at his watch. 3:48. “I suppose you do have a point about the time. It is rather late – er, early.” He studies Crowley for a moment. “Are you certain you’re in a fit state to drive?”

“Course I am.” Crowley swings his legs off the couch and blinks for the first time in two hours. “I could drive with my eyes closed and it’d be fine. Probably. Long as I avoid the M25.”

Aziraphale, having driven far too frequently with a completely awake and non-blinded Crowley, shudders at the mental image this suggestion produces. “I think not,” he says shortly, and waves a hand. Atop the back of the paisley couch, a small pile of blankets appears, topped with a dark pillow that looks reasonably comfortable, if not entirely perfect. Crowley stares him down long and hard like he’s waiting for an explanation, and Aziraphale breaks eye contact first as he gives a nervous shrug. “It’d be terribly inconvenient if you discorporated yourself after all this planning. Someone has to counter my influences, yes?”

“Your side wouldn’t be very happy to hear you offering shelter to a demon, I don’t think.” There’s no bite to the way Crowley says it, just an odd, not-quite gentle honesty. “Might be better for both of us to avoid it.”

“Yes, well. Should Gabriel make an entrance similar to his last one, I can assure you I’ll be the first to know.” Aziraphale busies himself with the table of wine bottles, sorting and resorting them without rhyme or reason. “In any event, I’ll be awake reading. I’m certain I’ll see them coming in enough time to allow you a hasty retreat.”

There’s another long silence filled with nothing but the burning sensation of Crowley staring him down. A minute passes. Two.

Crowley’s spine turns to liquid again and he flops back on the couch. “Night driving’s boring anyway,” he says, as if that’s the deciding factor. “Might as well raise Cain here instead of my own place.”

“I’d rather you sleep and leave Cain as he is, thank you.” Aziraphale keeps himself from rolling his eyes and glances over at Crowley. “I’m afraid the arrangement isn’t terribly elegant, but it should suffice for a night.”

“It’ll do,” Crowley says, and tugs a blanket over himself. It’s draped so sloppily over his form that Aziraphale can’t see how it can possibly be doing him any good for insulation, but he refrains from crossing the room to adjust it. Crowley is, after all, six thousand years old. He does not need to be tucked in.

The demon settles himself across the cushions and examines the blanket with a raised eyebrow. “Are those knitted snakes in the pattern? How thoughtful,” he says, a bit drily, and closes his eyes. It’s a good thing, too, because the snakes were decidedly not intentional and Aziraphale can’t quite hide his surprise at the revelation. “Night, angel. Wake me up when the world ends.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “You can’t sleep until the apocalypse, Crowley,” he sputters, but there is no reply. He looks over, and Crowley is breathing evenly, fast asleep in the blink of an eye. It’s almost miraculous how easily he does it, how peaceful he looks with his eyes closed, calm and beautiful like a star that’s falling instead of an angel already fallen.

Aziraphale crosses the room slowly, careful not to disturb him. He picks up the sunglasses that fell to the floor at some point in the evening and folds them up, sets them on the side table. Then, gently, ever so gently, because he won’t forgive himself if he wakes Crowley up from this, he bends over and adjusts the blankets to cover him better. When it’s done, Aziraphale studies him for a moment, taking in the serene expression and the comfortable sprawl of his body across the couch, and he allows himself a small smile as he leans in, just slightly. “You will wake having had a lovely dream about whatever you like best,” he whispers softly, a blessing in the night, and crosses the room to read.


End file.
